


come running through ages with me

by barricadeuse



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Death, M/M, Reincarnation, So yes, Violence, War, a cicle of reincarnations at the end of which they always have to die together, and every other cw of this kind so be warned, and seriously, i had this idea from a friend, it's really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeuse/pseuds/barricadeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"it is said some lives are linked across time. connected by an ancient calling that echoes through the ages. destiny."</i><br/>they keep living, and dying. in every age and every place. maybe it is written, that grantaire always has to die with enjolras. will it ever stop, he wonders? will they ever settle and live a long, happy life?</p><p> </p><p>  <i>(a series of reincarnations with the same, sad ending. or maybe not always)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	come running through ages with me

**Author's Note:**

> this is an idea that popped into my mind thanks to a friend, who suggested enjolras and grantaire trapped in a circle of reincarnations, always ending with them dying together. i tried to dig into history, because history is one of my greatest loves, and i hope i didn't end up resulting unrespectful or childish. trust me when i say that reading and writing about history always gives me incredibly powerful emotions, makes me feel part of the human race, truly, even when it's not always a very good feeling.  
> this works is dedicated to all the lovely ladies of my group, my amies who fill my days and whom i love to the moon and back.

The very first time is 1832, and the people are singing. It’s 1832 and the streets of Paris are alive with flaming breaths of revolution and indignation and anger, because the French are proud, and tired, _so_ tired. That very first time, he’s a poor wasted drunk (he still hasn’t realized it’s always going to be like this), lumping in the shadows, and Enjolras burns like a blinding flame. They raise a barricade with their hopes and dreams only to watch it crumble down. And when the shots pierce air and fabric and flesh, all that Grantaire can see are Enjolras’ never-yielding eyes, his almighty beauty and that red jacket. _Hands clasped so tight, and together into the dark. Je te permets._

 

Grantaire can remember it all when he wakes up again. It’s 1917 and dreams are nightmares on the Western Front, on the line of the Somme. He rubs his eyes to push sleep away and grabs a fistful of his unruly hair. He smiles, _because apparently some things never change_. How can you accept that you’ve already lived another life? The ground should shake because the laws of world and nature are cracking open and fading to dust. But after all, maybe they already have— Grantaire has crawled in the mud and lied in bomb craters near the bloodied bodies of people he knew and loved. Grantaire has walked with death and yet, in all his two years, has never seen an actual German. Just their trenches. Maybe he’s already gone mad, and this new discovery isn’t much more terrifying that when he saw Prouvaire caught in the wire and stared powerlessly as the German bullet pierced right through his shirt.  
«Move, you lazy lot! To the front!» Grantaire’s guts clench, because he— he hopes to go home, he hopes to die, he doesn’t know. His life’s meaning has been sucked out of his body, and as he grabs his gun, he finds strength in the image of that blond man, _Enjolras, that’s his name, Enjolras, Apollo_ , who once took his hand and smiled to him. When he reaches the vans that are going to transport the troops away from the rearguards, he learns that a new battalion has been brought in. Grantaire almost laughs (cries) when he sees that in these boys’ eyes there’s still hope, still fire, still belief that they’re fighting for a right cause. Was he like this, when he first arrived on the Somme? 

It’s only before an attack that he sees him. Corporal Valjean is shouting orders, and Grantaire notices how he’s holding the little medallion in which, he knows, there’s the picture of his daughter; Bahorel is, astoundingly, praying, but after all, there are no atheists in the trenches; and Grantaire’s mind is drifting, when he lays eyes on the figure of a young blonde boy. His world stops. _Enjolras. Enjolras. No, not here, not now, no_. It’s just a second, though, and then they’re out, running on the muddy ground of the wasteland between the trenches, while bullets (German, French, English, Italian, it doesn’t even matter anymore) sing through the air, and mortars dig holes that fall deep down until the very bottom of Hell. Grantaire is running, because _what else can he do, really_ , when a bomb crashes just a few meters in front of him, and the violence of the impact is enough to send him flying back, his temples pounding and a sharp pain in his tight. He probably has some broken bones. He can’t move. _This is it, this is how I’m going to die_ , he thinks, _oh, Dieu_. And suddenly a hand grips his own. Moving his head to his side is enough to make his eyes water with painful tears, but even through them, he can see him. His blond hair is covered in brown and there’s blood spilling from his nose and mouth. Still, Enjolras smiles at him, and utters a single world. «Grantaire,» and that’s all that Grantaire needs to hear. The shots come from machine guns and not muskets, this time, but they sound so familiar. And so does the darkness. Grantaire sinks blissfully into it, never leaving Enjolras’ hands. _If this is not the end, then I will find you again._

 

In 1943, Enjolras is hoping that he’s dreaming. But he’s not. The train is real, and so is the wagon, and so are the hundreds of people clammed in it. The taste of their collective fear makes the air morbid, poisonous, burning in his lungs. It’s been almost a week, or at least so Enjolras thinks, because without ever seeing the sun or stopping anywhere he can’t really be sure. Not that there’s need for stops. They all know where they’re headed. Grantaire hasn’t stopped shaking, not since the day they were found, hidden away in Grantaire’s apartment, both unmistakably naked. The Nazis had grinned— they had come for Enjolras because he was on their lists as a political dissident, but finding out he was also a homosexual was probably what had made them push him on that wagon, Grantaire right behind him. They had screamed and laughed and Enjolras had clasped Grantaire’s arm, because, _dear God_ , he was terrified.

He had always known the risks, but he had never truly imagined he would have found himself here, staring at the wide eyes of children and mothers and fathers and elders, all knowing, because the war had been going on for a while and voices arrived from Germany. The camps— and he had brought himself into one. Grantaire, Grantaire too.  
«Not again,» he whispers, more to himself than anything, but Grantaire hears him and understands immediately. This time, they had grown up together. This time, they had been neighbors in sunny Paris. When they had kissed for the first time, two fifteen-years-olds overwhelmed with feelings they couldn’t really understand, they had remembered, in a flash of colors and images and sounds and they had embraced each other so tight, because _this was it_ , they had all the time in the world. Grantaire had drawn messy sketches of Enjolras on long summer afternoons where they had discovered and adored every inch of the skin they had never touched in their previous lives, and they had been happy. Until Germany had moved— then it had been war.  
«It’s not your fault,» Grantaire says. «It’s no one’s fault,» he then adds, and Enjolras can see it in his eyes that he's desperately trying to escape inside his own mind.

When they arrive in Auschwitz, they survive for exactly three weeks and a half. They have no more hair, but there's a pink triangle stitched upon their shirts and six numbers inked into their arms. They rarely see each other, but when they do, it’s enough to make them live another day. But then a huge train arrives from Hungary, flooding the camp with more desperate souls— and they find each other again as they’re pushed towards what the SS call showers. Enjolras undresses slowly, because he knows. And when the doors are locked, it’s Grantaire who takes Enjolras’ hand. He looks at him as gas starts pouring down from the ceiling. There are no shots. _But the darkness is the same._

 

They meet again and it’s 1967. It’s also not France. Grantaire’s parents emigrated to America pursuing their dreams of a better future, and Grantaire’s proud to call himself an American. He likes his life there, he attends college, he’s happy. And when one day he sees the blonde man again at a party, all he can think about is that his life is complete. They remember their past in between hungry kisses and desperate moans, as Enjolras traces with his fingers the places where those bullets pierced his chest in 1832, or the exact point where is bone was shattered by the German bomb on the Somme, or the soft spot on his arm where his numbers were— sometimes they still hurt, but Enjolras is soothing, Enjolras is everything Grantaire has ever wanted.  
He discovers that Enjolras is majoring in Politics (how could he not?), and that he’s still the leader of a small group of idealists. Grantaire almost cries the first time Enjolras introduces him to them all— some of them remember, some of them don’t. Jehan places a flower crown on his head and greets him with a knowing _R_ , Bahorel shakes his hand and says nothing. Marius keeps talking about his girl back home, a beautiful little lark named Cosette, and Courfeyrac still radiates warmth. 

They laugh together, protest together following Luther King’s ideals, listen to rock’n’roll and read Ginsberg during long nights in which all that matters are their bodies pressed together and their souls entwined and Enjolras’ damp curls as Grantaire pushes even deeper. When Courfeyrac rents a van so he can drive them all to this huge musical festival in Woodstock, in 1969, Grantaire really thinks this time is _the_ time. They dance and drink and sing and wear flowers. Jimi Hendrix gives the world the most beautiful guitar solo to ever grace human ears and it’s heartbreaking. Enjolras kisses him square and firm on the mouth and nobody cares, in that multitude of people sharing hopes and dreams.

But they’re not blind (they never were). America is waging another war and Enjolras leads, as he always has, marches and angry signs blossoming around the whole country. Grantaire’s letter arrives. So does Enjolras’. Jehan bursts into tears when he slams his on the table of the bar where they’re all sitting— he couldn’t kill anyone, he doesn’t want to, he’s not going to. He has flowers in his hairs and he can’t stand the idea. But in the end is either that, or— nothing. So Grantaire stands still when his hair gets shaven, and takes his helmet with expert hands, because ha has fought more wars than any of those great generals can say. He lands in Vietnam and it’s hot and humidity is asphyxiating and the Viet Cong are merciless (can he really blame them? Grantaire doesn’t know). His comrades call him Grant, because his real name is way too hard for them to pronounce. He feels himself slipping into madness, and the hard music in his ears isn’t enough to keep his thoughts sane. When he finds himself surrounded, in the middle of the jungle, with voices shouting in a language he doesn’t understand and hard faces staring at him, he bursts out laughing, every ounce of humanity buried beneath napalm and tanks. He doesn’t even notice that there’s someone else beside him. Enjolras, as always. But when he feels him in the darkness, one more time, he sighs. _Is it ever gonna stop?_

 

In 1984, Enjolras wakes up to find a letter resting on his bedside table. If someone was there with him, he could ask them to hand it out to him. But there’s no one. His parents have ran away in shame, because that disease is the disease of addicts and fags. Enjolras is alone. He struggles to get to that piece of paper, his arms weak and thin, but when he finally grabs it, he almost misses a breath. The machine that records his heartbeat goes crazy for a while, until he can calm down. He knows that handwriting, messy and almost unreadable— not to him, never to him.

 _I have known you before, I have loved you before in another time, a different place— some other existence_ , it says. _I found you again_. Enjolras clasps a hand over his mouth because he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want Grantaire to find him here, like this, in this hospital bed waiting to die. He fists his hands in his hair and wants to scream— will they ever be happy, in a hundred, a thousand lifetimes? Will they ever grow old together? Will they ever stop wandering through time and space?

_I have had enough time to think, you know? I’ve remembered Paris and the Somme, Auschwitz and Vietnam. But I’ve remembered something else. Could it be we were once fighting with the Greeks, on the shores of Troy? Could it be I stole your armor, and you shook the ground in grief and anger when I died? Could it be you once dreamt of a world unified and rode to the edge of the world, and we stood together on the mountains of the Hindu Kush and I called you my Alexander? Maybe is just the drugs and the alcohol that are taking their toll on my brain. I dreamt we were heroes, Orestes fasting, and Pylades drunk. I dreamt we were gods. Apollo and Dionysus. I dreamt I was Icarus and you were the sun. Were there always some atoms of you and some atoms of me, ever since the dawning of time? Were we tossed into this world together by stars and constellations?_

Two rooms away, Grantaire smiles. He can feel his body surrendering, he can feel AIDS eating up every cell of his being. He knows he doesn’t have long. But he has found his Apollo. That’s all he needs to know. _«I didn’t even saw you,» says Enjolras, his voice a whisper in the dark. «I wasn’t a really nice view,» answers Grantaire. He can swear Enjolras leans in to kiss him, chapped and dried lips finding each other._

 

Grantaire is smoking a cigarette while Lana Del Rey sings in his earphones. He likes her, likes her vintage style. It reminds him of his— third life? Or was it the fifth? Sometimes he loses count. He coughs and lifts his parka hoodie— Paris is cold, and spring is still just a dream, and wow, _that sounded just like it was straight out of Game Of Thrones_. He doesn’t look up from the sidewalk, as he hurries towards the _Faculté_ — he really doesn’t want to miss this class. He’s quite certain his professor is going to talk about Greek sculpture, and that’s, well, everything. He has always loved Classic art, of course, but these days looking at those marbles and perfect features is the only way he has to see Enjolras, because he still hasn’t found him.

Maybe it’s better this way. When they are together, something terrible always happens, war and death and destruction. If they live separately, maybe they can actually hit thirty. _That would be a new thrill_. But still, Grantaire can’t deny the throbbing heartache that keeps him awake at night. Memories of bright blue eyes and cascades of golden curls, flashes of red and a voice he would recognize everywhere.  
«Grantaire!» _Yes, exactly, that voice_. Grantaire’s brain likes to play tricks on him (and certainly the alcohol doesn’t help)— a red jacket behind a corner, curls in the sun at the Tuileries, and that voice, _always that voice_. So Grantaire keeps going. He knows his demons, his ghosts, he has walked with them through the ages, he has learned to live with them. «You idiot, stop!» And someone crashes onto his back. «Holy fuck!» Grantaire shouts, turning around, startled and suddenly his eyes go wide and fill with tears.

They don’t even speak. There’s no need. Enjolras wraps his hands around Grantaire’s neck and kisses him so fiercely, so desperately, all Grantaire can do is hold his back and sigh into his mouth, lifting him from the ground. His bag tumbles on the sidewalk and people stare at them, at the way Enjolras clings to him and how Grantaire’s crying. But they don’t care. _Let us be happy this time. Please._

 _According to Greek Mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves. And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don't want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment._ Grantaire has always loved the Symposium in each and every one of his lives. Maybe this is the reason. As he holds Enjolras and buries his face in the familiar scent of his neck, he feels complete. Powerful and almighty. He feels the centuries on their back not weighing him down, as they always do, but lifting him up to touch the stars and see the unfolding of human events. In that precise moment, in an anonymous street on the _rive gauche_ of Paris, Grantaire feels like _someone_. 

 

(an happy ending: the warmth of Enjolras’ tiny studio, sheets twisted around naked bodies and the scent of love and lust still lingering in the air. Enjolras’ phone is playing _Charlie Boy_ by The Lumineers. Grantaire loves that song— for he once believed that fighting for his country was the right thing to do. There’s the faint sound of turning pages as Grantaire flips through an History atlas. Just like he does, Enjolras owns at least a dozen of them, all marked and inked with scribbles and _memories_. «I’m pretty sure you’ve been a Moulin Rouge courtesan,» says Grantaire, after a while, and Enjolras makes a strangled sound, slamming a pillow over his face. «I’m pretty sure you’re making that up because you've seen the movie recently,» he answers, and Grantaire snorts, because of course he’s right. That movie always gave him the feels. And that fascination Satine has with red… It was a legit inquiry, after all.

«But we’ve been pirates. I’m sure that happened,» and Enjolras laughs. «It’s true! Sailing in the Caribbean. You don’t remember, really?» Grantaire keeps rambling, and Enjolras watches him fondly. He has fallen for him during the centuries over and over again. And every lifetime Enjolras is reminded why, when he sees Grantaire's eyes and hears him speak and touches his soul. So he pushes himself on his elbows and kisses him.  
«I love you,» he whispers. Grantaire melts, then kisses him again and again. «Just so you know, we’ve never been pirates. Also, before you ask, no, we weren’t on the Titanic,» Grantaire laughs and drags him down again, naked hips rolling against each other and love radiating from every fiber of their beings. _This time, it’s not black. This time it’s passionate kisses at marches and protests, yes, but it’s red. Bright red._ )


End file.
